Crystal Lake
by old copperhead
Summary: Jason is on the loose.
1. Chapter 1

Teenafgers stayed at Crystal Lake this week, and Jason Voorhees heard their revelry and smelled their fornication. The partiers hung out in the shack, drinking and fucking and listening to the new hip songs.

Listen: therew were seven ov the teens, from 17 to 19 yeatrs of age: Jenna, long-legged and buxom, with fuliginous hair and eyes a rare dark blue; Emily, green-eyed and short, callipygous and narrow-waisted, a most pretty face; Cody, tall and wel-muscled, a football player and disciple of Casanova; Gsbriel, the nerd of the group, and littled loved by the others, a stringy guy; Damon, an aspiring musician, handosme and a disciple of Kenny Loggins; Jescica, considered a good-looking girl but not well-behavd, blonde and blue-eyed, one of the msot promicscuous girls in her high school, which was an achievement; and Remington, a quiet fella who loved the wisdom and treasured every book.

Late in the night, Cody retires one of the bedrooms upstairs with Emily and Jessica, the ltter two clad in lingerie, and the door is locked bheind them. They engaged in hanky-panku, and the lubricant and the cum flowed as honey. Their moaned and bucked and tossed about, while downstaitrs ill-fated Remington read some Charles Dickens he'd brought for this retreat, and Damon seduced Gabriel into sucking the musician's cock. During the enterprise, Damon sang Kenny Loggins tunes. Jenna tinkered with the lamp, bent over in an alluring fashion; diarrhea filled her ass and cunt and dripped down her short-shorts and legs. Outdoors, the mosquitoes lurked and waited, the frogs and birds warred among themselves to gain the sonic mastery, and the congregation of alligators dashed their tails against the riverbed as they did the night Mr Voorhees drowned.

And Jason woke in the depths, and about his passage the water was still. He emerged from the Lake, stood outside the cabin with machete in hand, and though it was turning to rust, it was a terrible thing to behold. This mute masked myrmidon of maniacal morass murder and mayhem saw the door open, and Remington walk out for to retrieve something from one of the cars. Jason sprang on him like a puma and bore the boy down, hacked his head half off with the machete.

There was no sesnation, and Remington expired there in the damp soil, crushed by a colossus.

'Few people are aware of this, but Marlon Brando seldom committed his own lines to memory. More often than not he would be fed his lines through an ear-piece,' said Gabriel, and Damon nodded. In the next room, Jenna wailed wayward and scooped up one of Cody's hairs from the foloor. Tears streamed down her face and remembered the game against the Star Academy Raiders where she was made so wet by quarterback Cody that she near slid off the bleachers.

Jason swooped into the cabin, his posture savage. He stabbed through Gabrierl so hard that he impaled both him and Damoin; their blood drained from them. Jenna saw this action and shrieked, drew out her phone and called the police; as it happens, this did not spare her, for Jason came forward and wrenched her head in the wrong direction. Spirit of Vengeance. Then Aurora Borealis flashed in the night sky. The towering slayer cleaved her diagonally from shoulder to hip, and thus washing himself in gore, he watched her expire.

Now, as for the youngsters upstairs, Jessica was fast asleep, and Cody sppooned with Emily on the bed and they talked among themselves, but nothing they spoke is remembered.

The stairs creaked under Jason's boots, and they first assumed the others came, and warned them from coming into the room, but Mr Voorhees barged through the door. Jessica woke with a start, and before you could snap your fingers a machete was buried in Ms Jessica's head. Emiyl shrieked and soiled the bed, being nude, and Cody leapt up and despite his terror he cursed the apparition and battled him, but was effortlessly overcome and folded in half like a lawn chair. Emily only, not at all valiant, begged for mercy and cried, but the barbarous brute bashed her brains in with his fists. Then her soul rose as a vapor, swept away by a sudden draft from the window.

Some miles away, a detective drove toward the cabin, speeding at 90 miels per hour down the country roads that night. It was Larry Brandis, infamous; he was a little shy of forty, tall and absolutely massive, with a huge belly straining at his shirt, which was stained with semen and mustard. Hiss jeans were dark at the crotch, as the man loved nothing more than to piss himself while driving. He sped down the road, cramming Doritos in his gaping mouth and wiping the dust off on his shit-stained trousers, although some of it settled in his lice-ridden beard, as if a treat. Brandis was a rascal, a bastard, impossible to predict. He'd contracted syphilis from a prostitute he'd abducted and strangled to death a decade ago, but he didn't mind; cancer festered in his bowels, every tooth in his mouth was rotten and and crooked, and his stool was invariably clotted with blood black as ink, the stench of it, and him, was indescribably foul.

Mr Brandis arrived at the cabin sometime later, unarmed. He briefly inspected the two cars parked outside, saw nothing untoward, but the smell from the cabin drew him in, sure as it would a dog or bear. Larry cursed when he took in the sight before him: three mutilated and dismembered corpses, one of them spattered with diarrhea. Brandis hurried over, boots stomping hard on the floorboards and gut jiggling.

'Surrender your shit, whore; you've got no use for it now!' the huge man bellowed, and he lapped up Jenna's diarrhetic shit, so unlike his own in consistency and color, till his lips were uterrly brown and his beard was matted. Wehn he finished, he jacked off.

He put his cock back in his trousers, zipped them up and buckled his belt. Then his head whipped around: Jason descended the stiars, covered with gore and machete in hand.

'I thought you'd'a left,' said Brandis, and Voorhees made no response. Then the detective hollered and charged at the slayer. Jason swung the machete, but Brandis caught his wrist, punched him in the gut hard enough to double him over, and all at once the two rolled on the floor, grappling, the machete lost. Jason's hands reached for Larry's throat, but the big man snapped his neck, and still the hands reqached. Larry cussed and eased off him, retrieved the machete, kicked Jason back to the floor as he made to rise. Mr Brandis impaled him to the wall when he rose, and affixed so, struggling even now, the detective cut off his hands, then cast away the machete.

Swearing under his breath and sweating, Larry knelt and ripped down the apparition's jeans, grabbed his cock at the root and took it into his gaping mouth, while Voorhees rocked around as best as he was able, his neck grievously broken. Some minutes this happened, but Jason was no closer to ejaculation as when he began.

Larry quick sucking, drew his head away. 'You got a good cock on ya, that's for sure. And I bet you're an ugly motherfucker under that mask, but I don't mind.' Still the antics continned, till more policemen arrived at the scene, at which point Mr Brandis told them that the suspect had murdered the corpses and attacked him.

The shocked cops manacled Jason Voorhees and explained to him that he was under arrest, though they would take him to the hospital before jail. Their stomachs turned at the smell of the bodies, as well as Larry's, and the remains horrified them.

Jason is alive despite everything.


	2. Chapter 2

(Five months after the events of Chapter 1.)

Jason Voorhess recovered from his brawl them time before. His hands had grown back, the prison's doctors had reset his broken neck, and his survival was considwreed a marvel.

Shlomo Feingold, senior psychologist of Acton Penitentiary, reckoned Mr Voorhees a golem, and planned in secret to commune with him and get him to fulfill his dresigns. Mr Feingold had been warned about this inmate; he'd killed several men already in savage and unstoppable attacks, his presence occasioned strange dream-states in certain prisoners, and for that matter the man's own cellmate said Jason never shit, slept, or ate.

One of these dreamers was a robber named Mark Gransden: he'd buck and holler and scream every night, tell his bleaery cellmates in the morning that Shapes and Signs called to him from untold eons. Just last night he woke with a start and yelled somwething about unhuman hands reachinmg from the darkness. He was paid no heed. A drama-queen and a cunt he might be, but there was something to his words.

Dr. Feingold contrived for an audience alone with Jason Voorhees, the latter securely shackled enough to keep a lion at bay, and with this being granted, Shlomo set about his task: he spread a circle of salt about the silent killer, rang a bell a few times, and kvetched about his salary.

The ritual was complete. Shlomo Feingold increased himself, and Mr Voorhees found his libido joined to the psychologist, and just now Jason is fucking the Feingold ass. The doctor's anus was slick with grease and smelled like somethingf roasted on a spit, and so no lube was necessary, although Jason's cock was scabrous and pelted with sores and ulcers. The organ was liekened to a torn barnacle on the bottom of some ragged pirate-ship.

One of the Acton inmates, not so far zway from Jason and Shloomo, a fella named Wallace Scull, planned, along with several of his confreres, to riot and take control of the prison, iutterly obliviosu to the enterprise Dr. Feingold planned to effect.

To bne continueds.


End file.
